


convince the world you never existed (and you’ll be able to breathe again)

by kashxy



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, Graphic, Hurt Peter Parker, Non-graphic suicide, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashxy/pseuds/kashxy
Summary: the world never deserved spider-man.it deserved peter parker even less.





	1. six

**Author's Note:**

> please proceed with caution. you are loved, and you are needed.
> 
> i made a playlist for this work. you can listen to it while reading, if you want. (or before, or after) 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/h972m270nwhylbfttg7xqshny/playlist/3hRbgPdmWqs94rsYnpv1RJ?si=4m30lX3dQSGaL5mCj-LVTQ

the fire escape leading out from peter’s apartment was rusty, paint splintered and creaky, but unmistakably his favourite place in the entire world. 

the idea of being so high without a safety net gave him such a satisfaction that he’d curiously mulled over whether that desire alone stemmed from some dark, undiscovered part of him, or his natural intrusive thrill for dangerous situations. 

he finds himself sitting there now, bare feet dangling in the rain. he’s soaked to the core, but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

from here, he can pretend that queens isn’t a concrete jungle of pollution and crime. from here, he can pretend that the buildings that rise ahead of him, decorated in blurred lights, are something he can hide behind, rather than protecting. 

he’s so used to protecting the world, but he finds himself tumbling further into the pit of self destruction that nobody seems to notice, or care enough, to help him out. 

he kicks his feet out, wincing as another shiver paralyses his body. he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat in his clouded desperation for fresh air, so he sits in ben’s old t-shirt, unsure of whether the liquid blocking his eyes is tears, or rain drops.

ben had been gone for a while now, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his heart when he fumbles at the burn mark at the hem of the shirt. peter remembers it well; he’d been cooking, and had burnt the pasta. may had grabbed the shirt and used it to wave away the flames, and the shirt had taken little damage. it was one of the last memories he had of ben before he’d died.

peter shakes his head. another happy memory, ruined. 

down below, there’s cars driving up and down the street, camouflaged by the three am light. peter doesn’t know where they’re going, or what they’re doing out so late ( _or early - he’s not sure anymore_ ), but he feels a familiar burning in his eyes. he tries to play it off as the rain stinging his eyes, but he pulls his feet up nonetheless and takes a deep breath in. not tonight. 

it’s so peaceful on the fire escape that he’s sure he could sleep here, had it not been tainted by so many negative memories. it held sadness like a locked box with no key, and peter would only come here on the days he attempted to pry open that box with blood stained fingernails - he was here a lot more frequently these days.

in fact, he was here so much that he left things for himself, on his next quest to search deep into himself and find out what was wrong. if he had the tools, he’d pry his skin open and prod until he found the source of the wrongness in his life. 

last time, he’d left a box of cigarettes and a lighter. it had been a long time coming that he’d eventually start smoking, but he’d never had the means to actually do so. he’s sure if he ever managed to dig inside of himself that he’d leave his lungs well alone so that they could rot inside of him in peace. 

the rain shows no sign of slowing down, but peter can’t bring himself to go back inside. he knows he has things to do tomorrow. he has to go to school, he has to go to stark tower, he has to go on patrol, _he has to, he has to, he has to..._

he’s so used to the routine that he can’t force himself back to consciousness. he goes through the days half dissociated, trudging through like a zombified shell of himself. people had commented on it, but he didn’t pay it any attention. if they really cared, he’d know about it. 

he’d left his phone inside, but he knows he wouldn’t need it anyway. peter’s become unusually comforted by the fact that if anybody needed him, they’d call for spider-man. they always did.

he hears a bin fall over to his left, and finds his body resisting the natural urge to flinch and look up. his eyes slump, half closed, as he turns his head lazily to the side. perhaps someone’s in danger, but he doesn’t have the energy to investigate. he doesn’t have the energy to do a lot these days. 

it’s a downright horrific attitude to have as a superhero ( _as a human being, for god’s sake!_ ), but it’s a struggle for him to feel anything at this point. the guilt had already washed over him, and left him like a rotting apple, topped to the brim of mould and maggots. he’s a shell, and it’s not like there’s anything left for him to care about. 

he hadn’t put his suit on in so long that he’s forgotten what the material feels like on his skin. ever since his mind had turned numb, his body had become increasingly sensitive, and he finds himself in a wave of sensory overload if he wears anything but clothes three sizes too big for him. he can’t even think of the suit anymore; he itches just thinking about it.

peter sighs, and wipes his curls away from his head. he knows he should probably sleep. it’s some sort of sickening parker luck by this point that he has a math test tomorrow, or an athletics exam. things he would have cared for. things he would have _felt_. 

the sun isn’t coming up for another few hours, and despite the numbness of his skin, he finds his mind overcome with exhaustion. perhaps he can hardly feel anymore, but the need to sleep drags his soul from his body and tortured him till he collapses. 

when he climbs back through his window, he has to swallow down the disappointment when he looks at the same, bleak, four walls he’d stared at so often before. he’d torn down all the posters in a fit of rage, smashed all the pictures around the room until all that was left was shards of blood covered glass. 

his bed is the same as he left it. still a wrinkled, damp coffin he’d used so often to hide from the pain. the bed holds more tears than it does hours of sleep at this point, but peter doesn’t care. 

he falls down on the bed, and sluggishly turns to his side. it’s twenty-seven past three, so he’s comforted by the fact that he’ll at least have two hours of sleep tonight. sleep seemed to be the only thing to recharge his bones, his one and only escape until he - 

peter sighs, and curls into the duvet. he’d left it slightly wet from where he’d sobbed into it earlier, but he’s more than used to it these days. 

his eyes trail to his wardrobe, landing on the spider-man suit he’d long since forgotten about. 

_(not forgotten. though he’d tried.)_

the stitching’s still the same, but it looks foreign to peter’s eyes. he can’t imagine his skin ever touched the fine material of the suit mr. stark had so carefully crafted for him. the layer of grime he wears so uncomfortably on his skin itches, and he scrunches his eyes to shut out the intrusive dirt. 

there’s no way he’d be able to think of being spider-man anymore. the baggage he carries in his heavy mind drags him down further from the positive reputation spider-man holds. _(held)_ peter winces and accepts the fact. 

the world needed spider-man. it didn’t need peter parker. 


	2. five

when peter goes back to school, it’s with a bleeding thigh and a hungry stomach. 

as much as he’d willed it away, the wounds heal quick enough, so he knows that by the time first period starts, the blood will have cleaned itself up. still, it stings while he walks, and he’s comforted. 

flash seems to have left him alone. he half heartedly picks at his interior sometimes, but peter only reacts with a blink or a breath. he’s too tired to do anything else. 

there’s been whispers, the casual gasps when he walks past with a shirt three sizes too big for him and collarbones so sharp they sink into his neck. the rude sniggers when he opens his locker, the nit picky comments when he sits alone in his classes. 

he hadn’t been able to shake ned and mj off yet in lunch, but he would. 

“sup, penis?” in another world, peter would probably have a fantastic response. something witty, sarcastic, something to put flash in his place and step on his ego like a bug under a boot. something that would make people think twice about talking to him the way they do. 

instead, peter blinks, eyes dry, and he walks into the classroom. he doesn’t even bother acknowledging the worried “ _peter?_ ” from flash somewhere behind him. he can’t really conjure up the energy to do much anymore, so he sits, and he breathes. it’s hard enough. 

he doesn’t really do his work in class. he sits, stares out the window at the rush of traffic on the busy queen’s streets, and he breathes. he focuses on that, and that alone, because it’s the only thing stopping him from crying now. 

“are you okay, peter?” 

he’s not even sure which teacher says it, but he nods glumly and buries his face in the worksheet. she gets the message, thankfully, and walks off, but not without a concerned, pity-filled look - a look he can’t _stand_. 

the day passes by like it always does: like a never ending cycle, and before he knows it, it’s time to go home.

 _(time to go home, time to patrol, time to call mr. stark, time to give up)_

he catches ned walking home, in the middle of a small alleyway, deserted and quiet. it’s perfect. 

“hey man,” he says quietly, fumbling with the front of his backpack. he doesn’t need this to go on any longer than it has to. “i, uh. i gotta give you something.” 

ned turns, and his face is a storm of emotions, something so vibrant and energy filled that peter finds his body aching with the second hand weight of carrying so much enthusiasm.

”peter! i’ve missed you!” 

peter doesn’t acknowledge it. he keeps his head down, and tries to ignore how much it hurts his heart to be doing this. 

silently, he pulls out his suit from his backpack. 

it’s the same as it was before; stained with tiny hints of blood, rips down the stitching on the one side. he can’t remember whether it’s all self inflicted or not, but it doesn’t matter. 

“i, uh. i need you to keep this safe for me, okay?” 

_(‘for me’. like’s trying to convince himself it shouldn’t be ‘from me’.”_

“wait, what?”

the confusion had been expected, but peter pushes the suit further into ned’s backpack, silent aside from his steady, low breathing. if he speaks, he may cry, and he really doesn’t have the energy to do that. 

“pete, you need this. _you’re_ spider-man.”

and, _fuck_ , it’s so painful, that he can do nothing else but leave with a mumbled apology and a stuttering breath, because he’s _finally_ given up spider-man for good and the thought is _agonising_. 

he’d been spider-man for as long as he could remember. most of his favourite memories resided with the suit, and now he had no way of getting them back.

the pain’s enough on its own, but he thinks of how mr. stark had plagued time and effort into his suit, making sure it moulded to his body and complimented every move he made. while he hurried away, head down to hide the tears streaming down his cheeks, he thinks of how he’s throwing it _all_ away, and he’ll never be spider-man again, and, _fuck_ -

he was _never_ going to be spider-man again.


End file.
